Red-Star Flower: Poinsettias
The Legend of the Poinsettia by Micol
Now, I don’t know if it is true,
This tale that I retell for you
About a plant of crimson hue
That blooms for Christmas cheer;
But legends sometimes bear inside
A bud of truth that won’t subside,
But, nurtured, quite declines to hide
And grows to touch each ear.
So I will share the tale once told
By wise ones sharing lore of old
About a child born in the cold
And swaddled in a manger.
It happened, once upon a time
(But not far back, as in most rhyme)
In a warm and sunny clime
A child walked, a stranger.
At midnight (so the story tells)
In silence softened by sweet knells
From seven solemn steeple bells,
He neared a chapel’s entry;
His bowed head bare, his feet unshod,
He knelt before the plain façade
Of a humble house of God,
And wondered, as he lisped a prayer
To the waiting, moveless air,
If he dared to enter there
In rags, and with no present
To lay before the Christ-Child’s feet,
At an altar, with blooms replete,
Still fragrant in white candles’ heat,
Their loveliness not spent.
No, he mourned, I cannot go
Into His presence to Whom I owe
My life and more, and in the glow
Of candlelight feel shame.
With bitter heart, he turned to leave;
He wiped a tear with one worn sleeve,
And took his way, alone, to grieve
Disgraced, far from the flames
That burned like Love within the hall.
But then he glanced along a wall,
And saw a flower, pale and small,
With patient ease he plucked one shoot
Close to the ground, near its root,
Then stood a moment, pensive, mute,
He turned, returned, entered among
The worshippers whose hymns had sung
Him welcome, and whose bells had rung
None bid him leave, none shrugged away
His raggedness, but as one they
Parted as he made his way
Toward their hearts’ delight;
They watched him walk with solemn grace
To the flowered altar’s base
And, bowing, bend his knee to place
They watched him weep a single tear
That fell upon the weedy spear;
They held their breath, as if in fear
Of what his gift should meet.
And breathed again as—wondrous show—
The single weed began to glow,
And from its base began to grow
They lengthened through some power unseen
In silence blessèd and serene,
And burgeoned in bright red and green,
Like living, weaving wands:
Broad leaves as green as springtime’s floods;
Stiff-velvet bracts like living blood;
And tiny blossoms, golden buds;
The one-time weed, transcendent now,
Unfurled into a brilliant bough
As worshippers bent solemn brow
And sang sweet canticles.
In after years, a man of fame,
Ambassador Poinsett by name,
Would bring the flower wide acclaim
And in good time, in jubilees
And holidays’ expansive sprees,
It found its place beneath bright trees,
To share their Christmas laud
Of Him who once, in cold and dark,
Descended here, a living spark,
Began His mission, to embark
That’s all. There is no more to tell
Beyond this simple, sacred spell.
I give you love, where’er you dwell,
